Losing You
by Heiress7Muzzy
Summary: Sherlock isn't a genius or sociopath or consulting detective. He never has been. John flips his shit when he finds out.


John watched, face impassive, as the men lugged box after box of his _former _flatmate's belongings down the stairs and into the waiting truck. He balled his right hand into a fist in a conscious effort not to yell at the careless manner in which they were treating the microscope, the test tubes, the skull. It shouldn't be any of his concern.

Footsteps sounded behind him, clattering noisily down the stairs that led from the attic. John closed his eyes. Even his _footsteps_ sounded wrong, for God's sake. In the two years he had been living at Baker Street, he had never so much as heard the consulting detective make a sound when walking, which was why he had always been able to sneak up on John. It was one of the many indelible traits that made up the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, after all. An enigma he was no closer now than he had been two years ago, it seemed.

"John."

And his _voice_ – God, his voice. It would have been better if he didn't still sound like the Sherlock John thought he knew. It would have been better if that rumbling baritone had been part of his disguise, too. John wasn't going to think about the nights when he'd bolted awake, paralyzed with terror, expecting an ambush from the Afghanis, and how it had been down to _his_ voice – soothing, gravelly, gentling – that had calmed him down, that had brought him back from the brink of a full-on panic attack.

"_John_. Please."

Softer, more insistent, now. When had _Sherlock_ ever asked for anything? Except for last week, when he had practically begged John – _'I'm sorry for all the hurt I caused you – but please, John – don't leave me.'_ John exhaled, then opened his eyes, turning to face not-Sherlock.

He almost wished he hadn't. There was so much that was familiar, and at the same time so much that was completely alien in the face that stared back at him. The same mess of unruly hair that John had spent no shortage of time running his hands through, the same piercingly intense _greygreenblue_ gaze that looked as though they could pick your life apart at a glance, the same enticing cupid's bow lips that John had sampled, tasted, committed to memory, countless times over the past two years.

The differences were subtle, but they were there. They were written in the worried furrow of the man's brow as he silently gazed at John, written in the nervous tapping of his fingers against his thigh, written in the defeated slump of his shoulders that made him fold in on himself, that made him seem smaller, and less of a target. Gone was the proud, haughty, consulting detective that always had a witty rejoinder to insult you with. In his place was the magician, the actor, the _fraud_ who had come up with the detective in the first place – all to impress and seduce John. And it had worked.

"Please – I can explain – give me another chance," the not-detective said desperately, eyes wide and contrite. Everything about him screamed _wrong_. This wasn't who Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be.

John cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse, dry and rough as sand-paper when he spoke. "Why? Why should I? You didn't just lie to me once, you've been lying to me since the moment we met. Two years – two _whole_ years!"

"That was the only way I could get you to notice me ," not-Sherlock mumbled, not meeting John's gaze, "I only meant the disguise to last for as long as it took you to acknowledge my existence, and then I'd tell you the – tell you the truth, but –"

"– but you got caught up in all of it, didn't you?" John cut in harshly, relishing the hurt expression that flitted across the liar's face, "Got in over your head? Thought it'd be fun to fuck with my head and my heart, did you? Well, good for you! Now you've done it – what you've wanted to do – so just – go. Leave me alone."

"John, I –"

"– Go – just go," John muttered, focusing on the graffiti-ed smiley face on the wall behind not-Sherlock. Its paint appeared to be peeling. "You've fucked up enough of my life as it is."

Not-Sherlock recoiled, visibly flinching back. "I – yes, alright," he finally rasped, his voice tight and pulled taut as a bowstring, and as John looked up he was shocked to see tears glimmering in his former – _friendflatmatelover_'s – eyes. Sherlock would never cry. As he watched, the man reached into a pocket and drew out a neatly folded note, which he handed to John. "I truly am sorry, John."

He turned and left, halting by the door as though hoping John might call out, tell him to stay. After a beat of silence, he exited, shoulders hunching in resignation and defeat. His footsteps sounded loud, too loud, as they descended the seventeen stairs from the flat. John counted every single one of them.

Settling himself heavily in his accustomed chair, groaning at the pain in his leg, John unfolded the paper and blinked at the single line written in an achingly familiar flowing, elegant script:

_The game will never be over, John, not when you still believe in it. – SH_

John thought back to the 'cases' the two of them had solved – the adrenaline and fear and heady rush of excitement, the euphoria and sense of comradeship and celebratory post-case shag – that had all been _real_. The cases themselves were the things that weren't.

But what did any of it matter, if the very essence of the man he had believed to be Sherlock Holmes were no longer the things that made him up? If the all that wit and brilliance, the Mind Palace, the deductive processes, the experiments, the cases – if all of that was make-believe, was there anything left of the man he thought he loved in the _real_ Sherlock Holmes at all? The fraudulent actor, who was so good at what he did he successfully convinced John and half of London into thinking he was everything Sherlock – the genius, sociopath, consulting detective – could have been.

John leaned back against his chair, crumpling the note in his fist. He closed his eyes, letting out a bitter laugh, and did nothing to stop the silent tears that slipped past his eyelids to slide down his cheeks.


End file.
